A Bird on a Cloudy Day
by onlyacoffee
Summary: She comes in early in the morning and orders a fan with a flippant wave of her hand. Feuilly smiles as he greets her, and though he does not know her, there is something about her that lights a spark in Feuilly's mind, something about the ink stains on her hands and her soft and timid voice. Something familiar.


_This was written a while ago, inspired by a prompt on making_hugo_spin, about Feuilly making a fan for another ami. This doesn't really fit the prompt, I suppose, not enough to post there, but I felt like I needed to write something, so this is what I did._

_I wish I could write something about Jehan as a Romantic, with a capital R,, but my thoughts are not coherent enough for it. But I do think he'd like the picture of a bird singing on a dying tree._

_I haven't researched anything for this, and especially not fanmaking. Still, it would, as always, mean a lot to me to know what you think! Thank you for reading! :)_

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She comes in early in the morning and orders a fan with a flippant wave of her hand. She is a tall young woman, with a dress of light pink and a floral shawl of green and orange that clashes terribly. Feuilly smiles as he greets her, and her answer smile, although gentle, is thoughtful and distant, as if her mind is far away from her everyday errands.

"I wish for something simple," she says, her low voice is a delicate birdsong but her back is straight and her posture confident. "Something that needs to be lovely, you see, without attracting too much attention," she shows of the ring on her finger, a bright jewel mounted on an equally bright band, almost unsuited to her youthful timid face and pink cheeks.

Feuilly doesn't talk to customers, as a general rule, beyond a smile, a nod, a polite bonjour, madame when they come in and au revoir, madamewhen they leave. Monsieur Grégoire, the shop owner, does most of the talking, as he is, in his own words, much more charming and less likely to simply talk the shop out of business in a matter of days. Politics have no place on this street, during daytime at the very least, and Feuilly figures it's fair enough. And, after all, what would these bourgeois ladies do talking to him? With their soft dresses, looking extravagant and out of place in the small shop, their curled hair and white, unblemished skins, they shrug off his own dirty hands and rough clothes. Their world and Feuilly's are entirely different, in appearance, two worlds within the same city. They aren't meant to connect, not yet, and Feuilly is twenty-two; too old to resent the ladies who come in the shop, but not too old as to not resent the society that made them both so, and certainly young enough to believe it can – and will - be changed one day.

This lady, when she comes that morning to order a fan without much thought at all, is no different, at first glance, than the customers Feuilly sees and greets without talking to every day. She is well off, enough to brush off the work her demand implies. She knows nothing of the workers' world, and why would she? – all she knows is that she wants a lovely, delicate fan that will not take attention away from the obviously very expensive wedding ring on her hand.

- her hand, which is gloveless and curiously stained with ink.

It's a little detail, perhaps, and it could be anything – she might have penned a letter to a sister, a friend, or even a lover! Just as she knows nothing of his life, Feuilly knows nothing of hers.

But there is something about her that lights a spark in Feuilly's mind, something about the ink stains on her hands and her soft and timid voice. Something familiar. As he paints the delicate silk sheets that afternoon, with no other indication as to what will please her but the glimpse he caught of her person, he realises it is unexpectedly easy if he pictures another face, a young man's, with equally pale cheeks and soft blue eyes, clouded with distant thoughts. A quiet voice that grows firm and manly when given a clear goal. Ink-stained hands. Was she perhaps writing poetry?

Painting the fans is Feuilly's work. He is not an artist - he is a worker; a good worker, but a worker nonetheless. He likes his work well enough, but it is still most a way to pay for a roof over his head and bread to eat every day. Most popular designs are simple, and he has been doing this work long enough to be able to draw and paint roses and gardens without putting much thought in the method. The longs days in the shop are filled with thoughts of books, of lands far away, of the future. The red of the roses and the blue of the river are in his mind much greater colours.

On this lady's fan, however, he mixes the colours, lilac and green and pink, and paints naked branches and a songbird against a cloudy sky. Standing behind Feuilly, Monsieur Grégoire clicks his tongue, shaking his heavy head and scratching his beard. "Here he goes again, that boy," he says gruffly, and loudly, as if the other workers weren't too busy with their own work to listen to him, "Painting things with his head who-knows-where. Who wants a bird on a cloudy day? Why naked branches, when you could fill it with blooms and blue sky?"

But he doesn't say more, and walks away to inspect Thierry's work on the other table. Feuilly's talented, Monsieur Grégoire says on good days, making Feuilly's ears turn red. His fans sell well, even though his original designs tend to be too subdued, too muted to be crowd-pleasers. Monsieur Grégoire is fond of him and lets him paints grey skies and naked trees, as long as his technique is good.

At the end of the day the fan is almost done and Feuilly carefully lays it out of dry over night. Monsieur Grégoire examines it for a moment and then nods, pleased. Madame will come for it tomorrow before noon, he says, clasping a large, fat hand on Feuilly's shoulder. Dunno if she'll like it, but good work. You can go home, boy.

Feuilly rubs his eyes and surprises himself by yawning. It is May, and sun has set. Thierry and the other workers have already left: it must be quite late, he realises, too late to make it to the Musain in time to meet with his friends. The day has passed quickly, and he is hungry and tired. He takes out a piece of bread from his pocket and hangs his apron, waving to Monsieur Grégoire as he leaves the shop.

As he walks home, he ponders about the fan he has just painted. Perhaps he will come in early tomorrow, to see if the young woman's hands are still uncovered and stained with ink. Perhaps he will try, for once, to engage in a conversation. If she is pleased with the design, maybe she will be willing to share her thoughts. If she isn't, he can take the opportunity to ask her what she would prefer. Perhaps he'll draw leaves on the branches, then, tear a hole in the clouds to paint sunlight on the bird's feathers.

Somehow, though, Feuilly is certain she will appreciate it. There's something about her gentle voice and her ink-stained hands, something so quietly familiar that it eliminates all doubts about this in his mind.

Men have no use for fans, and certainly not ones so delicately painted and decorated, but he is also certain that Prouvaire would like it, too.


End file.
